Not anyone
by planet p
Summary: AU; a continuation of Crime Time. Shannen has the unfortunate luck to run into someone she'd been thoroughly hoping to avoid for the rest of her life. Alex/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Not anyone** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_2010_

The flight, though she'd been seated for the majority of the time, had exhausted her. Coming off the plane and walking through the airport, her legs didn't want to wake up; she felt as though, any moment, she might trip up and pitch forward, thoroughly embarrassing herself, and, if she was lucky, spraining something in the process.

She hummed a Leona Lewis song as she stood in the queue of some airport coffee shop; she tried hard to recall Gary's order, but his words had just seemed to slip her mind as soon as they'd stopped. What did he usually have?

The airport air was too still, making it hard for her to breathe; she waited for a gust of blustery air that wouldn't come. It was a fine day outside; perfectly wind still, probably. She felt trapped in a carpeted, coffee shopped cage. She concentrated on remembering Leona's words, on the melody of the song. She jiggled her shoe on the carpet in time to an imaginary song; her feet felt like murder on heels, but she ignored the pain.

The queue she'd attached herself to lost a person, then another: _Won't be long, now,_ she told herself.

"Shannen."

She jerked out of her thoughts; Leona's voice, like a tape recording, was cut off abruptly. A feeling of dread dropped down on her – that hadn't been Gary's voice, she didn't know the voice. A fan, maybe? Did she have a biro on her? With forced calm, she turned about to face the speaker.

For a moment, nothing happened. The man who'd spoken might have been anyone at all. Then, she felt a trickle of cold on the back of her neck, reminding her of the rain from that night. She'd been soaked through; he'd given her a ride to the nearest motel. He'd crept her the Hell out!

He did, still.

"Alan," she greeted brightly, digging the name from her memory with difficulty. She had a strong feeling it wouldn't have been polite to chime, _Creep!_ God, that'd been what – one and a half years ago.

From her peripheral vision, Gary's face floated into her vision, approaching from the table he'd taken for them both. "Who's this?" he asked, concern heavy in his voice.

For a moment, she wondered if she'd just been imagining the menace she'd heard tingeing his voice, but, when she saw him regard the man, she knew she'd heard right.

"Alan," the man replied with an evident Irish accent.

Shannen held back her frown; had he had the same accent a moment ago, or one and a half years ago? In truth, they'd hardly spoken; in truth, she couldn't recall. That just left her name. Had he had the same accent when he'd spoken her name a couple of seconds ago? _Come on,_ she encouraged her memory. How hard could it be; it was mere seconds ago!

"Are you okay with this guy?"

At Gary's question, she snapped back to the airport café. "Yeh," she answered, her delivery clipped. She'd been going for a _yeah_.

Gary shrugged. She watched him turn and walk away, back to their table.

"It isn't Alan, is it?" she said, looking into the man's blue eyes.

"Alex," he corrected, without the Irish accent.

She felt a chill run over her; she'd almost let herself be convinced. _Oh, fuck!_ She warded off the thought that she found Irish accents adorable; puppy dogs were adorable, not lying bastards! _Double fu- Nny bone! I don't think _he_'s adorable! He's one creepy fuckin' weirdo! Just one more!_ "I never got around to asking the last time," she said in a voice that said that she was perfectly comfortable in his company, "but I _did_ wonder. What is it that you do?"

"Nothing."

She smiled, "Nothing? You're…"

"I'm on leave."

"Oh, I wish!" she moaned. She'd kill for a vacation right now! As if reading her thoughts, her little toe twinged painfully in agreement. She grinned wickedly, reaching over to place a hand on his arm, "Let's swap!"

He didn't jerk back from the contact, as she'd somehow envisioned, instead he smiled pleasantly and nodded, "I think that's you."

She turned and saw that the queue had cleared behind her; she was up. She moved forward to make her order, kicking herself for not asking Gary's confirmation on his order when he'd been hanging around.

The smile hadn't left her face – she was a fair actor, thank you – but, when she heard his voice close to her ear, she felt her blood run cold with fear. She went still.

"It wasn't JR, you know," he said, his tone of voice as pleasant as his smile had been, if not slightly amused.

She cursed herself for having been so _stupid_; she'd been the one to demolish that barrier first, she'd reached out, she'd touched his arm; and, now, undoubtedly, he'd gotten it into his head that that meant that they'd moved past the 'personal space' issue. _So _stupid_! You've just _got_ to act out the _dumb bitch_ persona to a tee! God, get a grip! Fuck, get a life! A jealous cow calls you 'stupid and insensitive' and you've got to take it and run! You're really pathetic!_

Paying the bill with her credit card, she moved away to wait for the order to come through and spun about. Across the café, there was Gary, waiting at the table, flipping through a colourful magazine with only a vague interest showing in his gaze. There was no sign of Alex. She had a bad feeling.

There was really no way she could think of that he'd know for sure that she was looking back into the Ursula Cox case; she was in no doubt that that was what he'd been referring to: JR for Ursula's older brother, JR Cox, and the likeliest suspect in her disappearance despite a lack of evidence and a seemingly watertight alibi.

She collected her order, a few sachets of sugar and two stirrers, and made her way over to the table where Gary sat, reading the gossip columns. The coffee was hot; she put it down quickly, passing one cup across the Gary.

"Thanks."

She sat down. Suddenly, she didn't feel like coffee; she felt like asking Alex why he was so sure it hadn't been JR. The mediums they'd engaged for the last Ursula Cox special had all agreed; the girl was dead, she'd been murdered by her older brother. What was more, they'd all been Maryland natives; it wasn't as though they'd come from halfway across the world for nothing more than a 'slice of fame;' they'd lived through seeing photographs of Ursula on the television, they'd listened to her parents' impassioned pleas for justice, for closure; they'd been on the in from the get go. And now this guy – Alex, he'd said his name was – thought he knew better! Just who the Hell did he think he was?

She felt a stab of anger. Well, the next time she saw him, he'd sure as Hell better watch out! She didn't take rubbish – or intimidation tactics – from anyone! Not JR, or any of his pals – not _anyone_!


	2. Appendix 1

_**Appendix 1**_

Website with information on _Love and Other Monsters I've Known (TV series)_

(Modelled on Wikipedia's format)

* * *

**_Love and Other Monsters I've Known_** is an American television show that ran from 1993 until 1994.

_Love and Other Monsters I've Known_ revolved around the lives of those working in a jeweler's store, Lovett & Love, in the town of Gorges Falls.

Many of its characters featured one or more supernatural abilities. Over the course of its two year run, there were witches, healers, werewolves, spirits, necromancers, telepaths, mediums and half-gargoyles.

* * *

**Characters**

**Doric Lovett**

Co-owner of Lovett & Love with Thomas Love. He is married to Hermione; together, they have a daughter, Estrelle.

**Hermione Lovett**

Doric's wife. She, Maxine and Estrelle are the only ones who know that Estrelle is really dead. She had Maxine, a necromancer, 'revive' her daughter when she discovered that she'd died.

**Estrelle Lovett**

Doric and Hermione's daughter. She is a specter or ghost. She died when she slipped off a bridge in the rain and drowned in the river below. Before the news could get out, her mother, Hermione, had a necromancer bring her back, but she is only able to have substance if there are shadows, she borrows it from them… therefore, she lights up a room when she walks into it.

**Thomas Love**

Co-owner of Lovett & Love with Doric Lovett. He has a son with his wife, El, and also an illegitimate daughter, Love, with Embracia. Love's paternity is a secret to his family.

**El Love**

Thomas's wife; Harry-Neal's mother. She is very self-centered.

**Harry-Neal Love**

The son of Thomas Love and El Love. Half sibling to Love. He is 'possessed' by Gorges for the benefit of beginning a romantic relationship with Estrelle.

**Embracia St. James**

A witch doctor or healer. Though unmarried, she has two children, both to different fathers. To be able to heal, she must first reveal her secret to her 'patient.'

**Love St. James**

The daughter of Thomas Love and Embracia St. James. She did not inherit her mother's abilities. She is half sister to both Harry-Neal and George. She is Ivan's best friend, and has revealed to her her mother's abilities.

**George St. James**

The son of Otter Jones and Embracia St. James. He inherited his mother abilities as well as his father's curse; he is half-werewolf, but, using his healer abilities, he is able to keep it in check. He is Love's half brother, and is in love with Estrelle, though he has not yet revealed this to her. Until midway through season one, Estrelle and he had began to form a bond of friendship, but then Estrelle is drawn away from him by the glamorous and intelligent son of the jewelers co-owner Thomas Love, Harry-Neal.

**Otter Jones**

A werewolf; he is being kept under the control of Lovely, the witch whom he is owned by. He is George's father.

**Yvonne 'Ivan' Cartimer**

A half-gargoyle, half-human. She is Henry's twin. She works for Lovett & Love repairing watches and clocks. She plans to someday rescue her twin from Lovely's entrapment in her Museum of All Things. Ivan must convince Embracia to admit to her that she is a healer so that she can heal her brother and restore him to his human state and bring him out of the witch's spell he is under. (She hopes this will work because Henry and she are twins and share a telepathic bond.) She must also befriend Otter in order to learn the witch's strengths and weaknesses if she is ever to save her brother.

**Henry Cartimer**

Half-gargoyle; Ivan's twin. He is being kept as a gargoyle by Lovely, though, through his telepathic link with his twin, he is able to communicate with Ivan.

**Gorges**

A water spirit; the spirit of the Gorges River. He fell in love with Estrelle and wanted her to be his bride, thus, on a rainy night, he seized his opportunity, causing the 'accident' which had her slip and fall from the bridge into the river below where she met her death by drowning. To his anger, she was 'brought back' into the realm of the living by a necromancer engaged by her mother, Hermione. Unwilling to admit defeat, or to give up on his love for Estrelle, he uses his powers to 'possess' Harry-Neal in order to get Estrelle to fall in love with him.

**Lovely de Chance**

A witch. She is keeping Henry as a gargoyle in her personal museum. Otter Jones works for her, as she owns him.

**Browning Everett**

A local medium. Possibly, he was the one who alerted Hermione to her daughter's death before the authorities were able to get involved.

**Maxine**

The necromancer who Hermione turned to when her daughter, Estrelle, drowned.

**Stacia von Renmar-Zhivago**

An investigator with the police who comes to Gorges Falls looking for revenge against the dhampire who killed his sister, Nautilusia. He suspects Otter of being the dhampire (half-vampire, half-werewolf) who murdered his sister, and begins looking into his activities, causing anxiousness in George and Ivan alike. He was introduced in season two.

* * *

**Cast**

**Doric Lovett –** François Jean Barrett

**Hermione Lovett –** H. A. Helms

**Estrelle Lovett –** Louise Corrington

**Thomas Love –** David L. Burrows

**El Love –** Ellenor Landers-Cray

**Harry-Neal Love –** Daniel Jobling

**Embracia St. James –** Lonelli Grieve

**Love St. James –** Cartar Burns

**George St. James –** Lake Taryn

**Otter Jones –** Deniel Mont Rennie

**Yvonne 'Ivan' Cartimer – **Shannen Cleary

**Henry Cartimer –** Barnaby Luke Raymond

**Gorges –** David Lattimen and Daniel Jobling

**Lovely de Chance –** Jewel Isario

**Browning Everett –** Donald Green

**Maxine –** Aliss Turtle

**Stacia von Renmar-Zhivago –** Lexis Carver

* * *

**Remake**

In recent years, there has been talk of a remake to be tentatively titled _Love and Other Monsters I Know_. As yet, the prospect remains unsubstantiated.

* * *

**DVD Releases**

Seasons 1 and 2 have been released to DVD: season 1 was released in 2006, and season 2 in 2007. A complete series box set (featuring both seasons) was released in 2008.

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**So, it's not really a comedy skit, but I couldn't think of anything; comedy's not a strong point.**


	3. Chapter 3

The laptop computer lay open, its screen still showing the up-to-the-minute online news page bearing the evidence of the cancellation of the show that had began hopefully in 1999 and ended yesterday, suddenly and silently. The sound of vomiting and choking drifted from the bathroom where Shannen stood bent over, clutching the basin bowl with whitened knuckles. What a load of fucking shambles that she'd had to find out about her show's cancellation on the bloody net, rather than by somebody _calling_ her! Where was the fucking courtesy these days? What the Hell had happened? Out of the blue – bam! She hadn't even heard any rumours! Not a Goddamn thing!

Until today!

On that stupid fucking website!

* * *

"No-one wanted to hear that the show had been axed; it was a _great_ addition to our lineup, but the network had to be realistic. It's hard for me to believe, even now, and I promise you-"

Shannen pressed the 'end call' button and dropped her cell phone down on the bed. He _promised_ her! What a load of trite drivel! Her stomach wavered; she felt sick again. _Fuck!_

She walked to the bathroom on shaky legs. It wasn't until she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that she saw that she'd started to cry. _Oh fuck!_ That was bloody all she needed. Fresh tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't wait to watch them fall; she sank down against the wall and sobbed.

* * *

"Barnaby?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"Shannen."

"Shan. Oh fuck! I'm really sorry-"

The sharp sounds of a child's screaming interrupted their conversation – from Barnaby's end, not hers.

"Myriam, Luca, for God's sakes! Dial it down in there! Daddy's on the phone."

More screaming met this pronouncement – louder this time.

"Bloody Hell! Shan, I'm sorry. I've got to go. I am – fucking sorry! Why don't I sort the girls out and, and I'll call you back? Later, yeah? You'll be available in half an hour, an hour, tops?"

Shannen sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. "No," she replied quietly. "Give my love to the girls and Donna."

"Sha-"

She pressed the button the end the call – again.

* * *

She could hear Gary banging on the door – if he didn't stop soon, someone would call the hotel security and he'd be in a lot of trouble – then, he gave up on the banging and started shouting, he'd go and get somebody to open the door if she didn't answer right away; he'd heard about the show; it was fucking bullshit; but she had to open the door.

She pulled on a jacket and walked to the door. As she opened the door, she watched Gary's face fall. Beads of water ran from her hair, newly showered, and slicked across the back of her neck, slipping down her back. She ignored the feeling and slipped past Gary, "I'm going out."

He didn't try to stop her; she kept walking, the sounds of her high heels muted on the carpeted floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Shannen laughed, "If it isn't my stalker! Going to show me to my car, are you, Alan?"

"No."

"Bloody oath! You're no help at all."

"You didn't come in a car; you walked."

"Bullshit!"

Alex glanced at the bar where she'd emptied the contents of her pockets illustratively: no car keys.

"Oh, fuck! Where are they?"

"You didn't bring your car, Shannen."

"I bloody well did! Don't you tell me you know what I did better than I do!"

"Then where are your keys?"

"I dropped them! I don't know – somebody nicked them!"

"They're back at your hotel room; how much do you want to bet?"

Shannen cast a disappointed look to the bar; she was out of cash, and no change to speak of; none whatsoever. "Can you buy me a drink? I promise, I'll let you walk me back to the hotel afterwards. I think I'm drunk. Just one more drink," she pleaded.

"And what will that get you?"

"An excuse for a bit of company. Don't you ever just want a bit of company; a mate? I do! I ring, but they're all too busy with their _lives_! I'd be busy with my life, too – if I bloody had one!"

"You have a life."

"Shut up and buy me a drink!"

* * *

"When you're not 'on leave,' what do you do?" Shannen asked as the traffic light changed colours and the pedestrian crossing lit up with the walk sign and she set off over the road, Alex walking behind her. She kept walking ahead and turning back to talk to him; it was driving her mad; why couldn't he keep up?

"I'm a sociopath," he replied, casual as you please.

"Oh, sure! Just my luck, eh! Look, don't give me that look! I'm not a dolt; I can see it coming! If I slow down I'll end up flat on my face! My coordination's a tad tipsy. Don't tell me you've never been drunk! A right sad state of affairs, there! God! Which way is the hotel?"

"You're going the right way."

"And I'm going to take your word for it… because you've been stalking me?" she posed incredulously.

"I asked the doorman; I saw the name of your hotel on your key card."

"You know, for a sociopath, you're a bit of a bloody sneak!"

"Oh, we tend to be."

"'We' is it now! It's a special club, is it? God, you might have elicited my key card and popped back to my hotel room, got my car keys, and brought the car round – my feet are killing me!"

"You didn't ask me to."

"I might have, were you a mind reader!"

"Evidently, I am not."

Shannen laughed, "It's a joke, bubbles! You're meant to laugh!"

"My apologies. Was that another sleight of thought?"

"Are you joking?" she asked, squinting to make his expression out against the light from the window he'd just passed.

"Badly, apparently," he replied.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Do the girls always ask that?"

She grinned, "Is that what I am, just another girl?"

"Yeh," he replied honestly.

"Are you winding me up?" she asked, suddenly realising that he'd been speaking back to her in exactly the same accent she'd been using.

"Noo. Noo, I don't think so. I didn't see any sort of winding mechanism. Then again- Stop!"

She spun about and froze, the smile wiping from her face; her eyes searched for any sign of danger only to discover that her vision had gone wishy-washy on her and she'd only been okay whilst she'd been walking and her mind had been on their conversation, which, now that it had stopped, brought reality suddenly to the fore. "What?" she cried, panicked. She suddenly remembered that he'd dropped the accent at _Stop!_

"Nothing. It's nothing," he told her, his voice louder than before; closer.

She started. _Bloody Hell!_ He'd caught up to her, then. "'N-'"

"No. I don't have a girlfriend. What about you? Do you have a partner?"

She frowned, struggling to catch onto what she was supposed to say in reply to that. "Nah."

He smiled – she stared – and startled her for the second time by taking her hand. "Go."

"What?"

"Go," he repeated.

She turned a glance to the streetlights; the walk sign was flashing green. Up ahead, she could finally see the hotel. She started walking. "Do you have a younger sibling?" she asked quietly, looking at the path ahead instead of at him.

"No. What gives you that impression?"

"You're holding my hand," she said. Not that she was complaining, strangely.

"You're drunk… by your own admission."

"Bugger you!" she replied.

"Hmm…"

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did!"

"I don't recall."

"You said, 'Hmm…'"

"Hardly what you'd call saying something."

"Then what?"

"That's it. Hmm."

"Don't think I'm inviting you into my room!" she snapped.

He laughed, "Oh, I wasn't."

She scowled and muttered, "A real flatterer, you are!" She looked across at him; he hadn't said anything back. "You were serious; about being a sociopath?" she asked.

"Quite."

She made a face. "Would you? If I asked you in, would you come in?"

He met her gaze, "But you're not."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I am."

"You're hardly in any fit state, wouldn't you say?"

"Fuck off!" she snarled.

He let go of her hand; it fell to her side. "There are rules," he replied blandly. "I have to play the game; have to stick to the rules."

She stopped walking; they weren't more than a few good strides from the hotel's entrance, but she wasn't going anywhere. "Your rules? Because you're afraid you'd have the overwhelming urge to kill me?"

"They're not my rules," he replied simply, meeting her eyes.

She thought he'd look away, but instead he made a point to look _at_ her. She lowered her voice, "You know what they say: rules are made to be broken."

He diverted his gaze to the doorman, "A pleasant evening to you, madam," he told her, and turned about.

She watched him walk away with a blank stare. Not much of a stalker, then! Well, that'd been a big waste of time! And a let down! She hadn't even got to ask him about his theory on JR. _JR!_

She jerked forward, nearly pitching over her feet, and ran after him. "I had a question!" she shouted. "Alex!"


	5. Chapter 5

The ride up to the floor her hotel room was on was boring; she didn't like the music that was playing in the elevator or the silence between them suddenly. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. There wasn't even a decent conversation to listening in to; they were the only ones in the elevator.

Leaving the elevator behind, she didn't walk with any serious pace; she wasn't in a hurry, and, she decided, she wanted to see if Alex would get impatient at her 'lagging.' She was usually a brisk person; she was certainly used to being such a person, but sometimes she liked to slow down; she liked to know that she could still pull it off. Sometimes, it was appropriate to relax, at other times, stressing out couldn't be helped. She hated to think that she lived in a permanent state of Stress Out, as though that was the only mode she was capable of running.

She didn't really know much about Alex, after all. He'd told her that he wasn't the sort of person who'd just 'get' her, or even the sort of person she'd probably take as a best friend, but, other than that, she didn't even know what he did. So, he had a problem, and he recognised that – if he didn't actively manage it – he wasn't stupid, but everything else was nothing more than assumption.

If he got annoyed with her pace, maybe he'd suggest she pick it up, or maybe he'd walk ahead – he'd said he'd seen her key card; it clearly stated the room number – she'd have to wait and see.

They reached the door and she dug in her pocket for her key card; she'd almost expected to see Gary waiting for her, but he hadn't been. She frowned down at the card she'd taken out of her pocket – credit card – and tried her pocket again. She ran the key card through the reader; the lock disengaged. She sighed in relief, grabbing the handle and pushing the door open. She rushed to the sofa and sat down to take off her high heels. They'd left unsightly red marks on her feet; she wiggled her toes; _ouch!_

When she looked up, she saw that Alex had closed the door after him and was watching the window on her right. The night had long since descended on the city, which glittered below a dark, mucky sky: billboards, and the windows of high rises, like glowing matchboxes or tiny Lego pieces, winking back at them; the lights of cars, miniscule from up here darting in and out of the dark rubble, the signs of banks and investment companies glowing in bright colours from their mounting on the side or top of some skyscraper.

"So why wasn't it JR?" she asked, pushing aside the insistent urge to ask if he'd grown up in the country.

"Doesn't fit," he replied absently. He hadn't looked away from the window to examine her expression.

She ignored the window; she'd seen big windows before; she'd seen sparkly cities before. "Sorry, what doesn't fit?"

"The sort of behaviour that he was accused of; it doesn't fit with his psychological profile."

Shannen frowned; _sure!_ "And you're totally conversant with his psychological profile? You're his shrink?"

"I've done some research."

She got up from the sofa, stepping into his line of vision, blocking his view of the window or the city that sprawled below. "You compile psychological profiles on criminals?"

"No."

"Then how would you know! You took a few psych classes back in the day, and you think that gives you some sort of superiority over the common people! Do you know what that amounts to in my books – squat! I've consulted countless professionals for _True Crimes_, and I'll tell you what – I wouldn't send my poodle to a good majority of them!" Poodles were so _out_; it was Chihuahuas these days. She shook her head; she didn't have a poodle, it didn't even matter. "Show me," she added, "show me how it doesn't fit."

She left the room and walked to the bedroom. She'd dumped her things on the bed and she leaned down to pick her pencil case up off the bed. Walking around the bed, she took her notebook from the stand beside the bed. She unzipped her pencil case and rummaged in it for a pencil or appropriately coloured pen as she walked back to the other room; she found a blue pen and dropped the pencil case onto the coffee table. She held out the pen for Alex to take.

He stepped around her and chose one of the markers that had rolled out of her pencil case onto the coffee table.

She slackened her posture and turned about, annoyed. She didn't say anything, she merely folded her arms, when he began writing something up on the window with the white marker he'd chosen. He'd better hope that came off, she thought.

* * *

She stood close behind him, resisting the urge to drop her chin onto his shoulder just to break his concentration, and listened to the sound of the marker on the glass. He wrote in a neat, flowing hand she found she could easily envy. (Someone was always criticising her 'scrawl'.) More than neatness, there was the sort of tangible pride that many modern schoolkids – who'd much rather be SMSing or IMing than working on their homework in an exercise book – didn't feel; there was real care. Increasingly nowadays, she'd noticed, letters were written on computers, personal correspondence was carried out by emails, cell phone calls, video calls or Instant Messaging. Clever, innovative phones even had applications for shopping lists! Handwriting like that took dedication, or discipline; it said something about a person. At least, it had. It was something out of a bygone era. Unsurprising really, though. There had to be something like fifteen years between them; maybe more.

"And, as nice as that looks, I have no idea what any of it means," she told him from close beside him, not bothering to lower her voice. She didn't know what his interest in JR Cox was, but she intended to find out!

He replaced the cap on the marker and turned to her to explain.

She refrained from a sigh; so he hadn't lost it and snapped at her to have a bit of care when she was standing next to a person not to deafen them; there'd be other chances, she supposed. She didn't even know why she was trying to wind him up; he'd told her that it wasn't a good idea, and she'd instantly dismissed his words. She smiled, wondering if it was the alcohol that had imbued her with a new recklessness, or if she was always this stupid. Deep down, she supposed, she hadn't really taken his word for it; she'd already decided not to trust his words; he was trying to intimidate her, she wouldn't buy it.

Listening to his words, she wondered if that was smart.

_Get smart, Shannen,_ she thought, and mentally, her smile widened. Sometimes, she was too damn stubborn. If she wasn't careful in her ways, it'd probably get her bumped off one of these days.

She let her morbid thoughts play on.

* * *

She watched Alex's hands shaking and smiled, lifting her gaze to meet Alex's. She could imagine his analysis of the situation: she was too complacent, she wasn't _listening_; she wasn't taking him _seriously_! "Why, you're positively trembling!" she joked, fully anticipating a slap.

"I want to kiss you."

She forced down a peel of choking laughter and said, on an amused note, "And I was ready to attribute it to low blood sugar." She wanted to laugh in his face, she wanted to spit back at him that she'd sooner take a running leap from the top of the building, but maybe, just maybe, that wasn't the whole truth.

He laughed and turned away from her, pulling up his sleeve to wipe the marker from the window.

She crossed her arms and waited for him to finish; she'd be having her marker back, now.

* * *

"Coffee?" she asked, jamming items into her pencil case from the tabletop. She scooped a tropical-scented highlighter from the floor – she'd stepped on it and cracked it. Her favourite berry highlighter had run out a day ago and she reminded herself that she needed a new one.

She glanced up in time to catch Alex's nod, zipping the pencil case shut and throwing it onto the sofa with the notebook. The orange highlighter needed the bin. She stood up. "Sugar? Milk? Cream?"

"Two sugars."

She nodded and turned away, walking toward the kitchenette. The carpet was soft, her footsteps almost silent; at least the marks had left her feet, she thought. She wondered what JR was doing; probably not having coffee with a stranger, in any case.

* * *

She brought the coffees back from the kitchenette – the kettle had taken too long to hit boiling point, there'd only been instant – and set them down on the coffee table. "I'm afraid we'll have to make do with instant," she said.

"That's fine," he replied.

She sat down on the sofa, beside him, but not beside him; her notebook and pencil case had conveniently filled that post. Her palm was orange from the highlighter; the ink hadn't come out properly, it would probably take another wash.

She glanced over the coffee table but she couldn't see the carpet; she didn't stand up to look, she supposed it'd be okay. She picked up her coffee and took a sip; it was hot but the milk had helped; there'd been no cream. She'd added too much sugar, she noticed. Ha, great! Was there a thing she could do right?

She looked across at Alex. "If you've nowhere better to be, you're welcome to stay the night. I promise I won't fight you for the sofa." She smiled. _What an idiot!_

He shook his head; he'd pass.

She took another sip of her coffee. "Fair enough." She let her smile fade. _Idiot!_

* * *

"Have you got a car? Do I need to call for a cab?" She stirred the last of her coffee with her finger; it had cooled. Granules of sugar lodged themselves under her fingernail. She put the cup down; it'd be too sweet.

"No."

She frowned, looking up from the tabletop. "No what?"

"No, you won't need to call."

She scrunched up her nose. "My show's been cancelled," she said. "Did I tell you that? Did you know that?"

"No."

She laughed. Why she'd had to mention that, she hadn't a clue. She patted her hand on the top of the coffee table absently. "I guess I've just wasted your evening, huh?" She didn't look at him; she'd just remembered the carpet on the other side of the coffee table.

"I don't think so."

She shot to her feet with a burst of laughter and leaned over the coffee table, trying to get a look at the carpet.

"What are you doing?"

"Being an idiot," she replied, straightening up and crossing her arms. "Going to bed," she added. Well, that'd been a real success; there hadn't been a stain, but now she felt sick and her midriff hurt. "I'll see you out," she told him, walking away from the sofa. What would she do now that her show had been cancelled: wash dishes, clean floors?

She put a palm up to her nose and stopped, waiting for Alex. She heard him place his cup down on the coffee table and turned around. She returned her hand to her side. "Won't you stay?" she asked. "Just until I've got off to sleep?"

He stilled and met her eyes, the distance between them too great.

She wanted to step forward so that she could put out her hand and touch his. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong; that she didn't believe in hopelessness, despite what anyone might have construed from her work on _True Crimes_ or so many hundred posts by viewers on the web. She wanted to say that she believed in redemption and the possibility of morality; if we could change, it _could_ be for the better. She doubted that he'd even listen to her if she said so; he'd ask what _better_ was, he'd ask to see her proof, he'd tell her that all it was was weakness. All living things hurt other living things; it was only some of them who were too afraid (too weak) to go all the way.

She wasn't in the mood to hear that; she was suddenly desperately alone, she hated it. She just needed it to let up, just for an hour. How pathetic she was, she thought, that she'd be willing to overlook everything for just one hour, for a warm hand to hold!

Alex frowned, looking to the floor; the carpet was too light, too easily stained. "Alright," he said slowly.

* * *

"What did you want to be when you were a kid?" Shannen asked, looking for any flecks in the blue of his eyes. She couldn't remember who'd suggested he lay with her on the bed.

"Can't remember," he replied.

She smiled; of course.

"What did you want to be?"

"A princess." God, that was clichéd!

He reached over and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek.

She felt her smile threaten to evaporate; she kept it, painfully. She was such a stupid girl!

Alex took his hand back. "Goodnight, Shannen."

Her stomach hurt. Now came the part where she had to close her eyes. "Night."

* * *

Her eyes flew open in panic; night-time dark made it hard to see the smudges of light that seeped from the unsleeping places; from the city's signs and windows, from the streetlamps, and the glow of illuminated digits. She waited for her eyes to adjust, feeling her heart beat heavily in her chest, in the ends of her fingers. It was quiet and she was warm, but something was off.

She couldn't see the digital alarm clock that should have been sitting on the stand beside the bed. She reached out a hand blindly, and bit back a cry, retracting her hand in horror.

_It's just Alex,_ she reasoned; she'd asked him to stay, he must have fallen asleep. Her thoughts rushed about; she put her hand out, her fingers pounding, and rested her hand on his back. Warm, alive.

She couldn't relax. She needed to switch the lamp on and wake him up. He had to leave now; she shouldn't have asked him to stay; she'd been horrible to do so. They were strangers.

She took her hand from his back and sat up slowly, waiting to see if he would wake. He didn't. She reached for the stand on her side of the bed, then patted her hand over the surface, searching for the lamp. She switched it on; her eyes stung with the sudden burst of light. Tears prickled in them for a moment, before she blinked them away. She waited with her eyes closed for a moment, then tried to open them again.

It was better. She could see.

She turned to Alex. He must have turned around in his sleep because he was facing away from her now. She shuffled closer fractionally and placed a hand on his arm to shake him awake. She found herself staring at the wall opposite; she returned her attention to Alex and bent down to speak into his ear. "Alan."

The silence stretched on, with only the shadows to break it. She rested her cheek on his arm and tried to make out the sound of his breathing amongst the loudness of the light and the dark that clashed on the wall. She closed her eyes and listened.

The light on her eyelids beckoned her eyes to open, reminding her of her task. "Alex." She opened her eyes, brushing hair from her face, and sat up. "Alex." She gave his arm a shake.

She took her hand from his arm when she sensed that he'd woken up. She didn't want him getting angry at her for that as well as for waking him. She stared at the closed bedroom door rather than look at him, and, when she looked again, he'd had the time to sit up and was frowning at her, eyes bleary.

She had the weird feeling that he was going to ask who she was, for a second, but the second passed and the feeling went away. "I think you should go," she said. "Gary will probably want to talk about things in the morning and I don't think that that'd be a meeting you'd want to be there for. I don't think he's your biggest fan."

"Did I wake you?" Alex asked.

She thought that was strange, but said, "No. I woke by myself." It was starting to grate on her nerves how _bland_ her voice sounded. She looked away, to the wall. She was upset, she realised. She tried to think why she was upset.

"I'll see-"

She turned her head to look at him. "Then why don't you?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you wanted to kiss me. Then why don't you?"

Alex frowned. She could see him formulating a response.

"I won't object," she said.

He laughed. It wasn't out of amusement. It was the type of laugh that said, _That's not the point._

Because it's about him, she thought; it wasn't about her; maybe, she was just there. It could have been any other woman, if they'd been there and she hadn't. "Don't you want to anymore?"

He closed his eyes.

"You do, don't you?" He couldn't see her smile. She put a hand up and stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. "You can if you want."

He pushed her hand away without opening his eyes.

She wondered if he would get scared or get mad, if she pushed any further. She didn't want him to go, but she was trying to pretend that she did; she felt so stupid. She shouldn't have been winding him up; it was stupid. She wished she hadn't gone out at all; it would have been so much better if she'd just stayed in and watched TV movies and felt sorry for herself.

"I do," she breathed. She watched him open his eyes. She shuffled closer. "It's okay," she told him.

Maybe she should have ordered a bottle of wine from room service and invited Gary to join her to drink it, she thought. Gary was familiar, safe; Gary wouldn't hurt her, and there was no way that he could. Right now, she realised, she was doing a good job of hurting not just herself, but Alex also. She hoped like crazy he wouldn't let her get the better of him; she hoped he'd turn her down.

The moment that he looked at her, she knew that that wouldn't happen. _You silly bitch!_ she thought angrily, but she couldn't make herself say, no, she'd changed her mind.

* * *

She didn't close her eyes. She wanted to, but she just couldn't. She felt horrible and powerful and, as hard as she tried, she couldn't say _no_ to it. She'd been miserable but this wasn't miserable, it was _oh so much better_!

She didn't move, just put out her hand to take his: _it's okay._ She watched him draw closer and she had the most terrific feeling of _I win!_ She wanted to laugh and slap herself at the same time; she needed to be stopped, she thought wildly. She wasn't this person! She didn't know where this person had come from!

She felt a smile come to her lips; then, she couldn't tell; other lips were pushed up against hers, muddling the shape up entirely. _You're being insensitive,_ she chided herself. _A kiss is meant to be shared. It isn't given or taken, it isn't exchanged; it's shared._

She let her thoughts cloud up; she let herself be lost in the sensation of sharing something only she could; of sharing something that couldn't be shared with anyone else except for the two of them.

She held his hand tighter, but really, she didn't want to hold his hand, at all; she wanted to put her arms around him and hold _him_. She wanted _him_ to hold _her_.

She'd forgotten how nice it felt to feel the warmth of someone else's body, how good it felt; how safe it made her feel; how it made her just melt, how it made her whole day just melt and reform into something warmer, brighter; better.

Her heart pounded in her throat; her soul's heart burned, and glowed. She felt alive, she felt needed; she _needed_. She needed to feel alive.

Tears wet her face. It took a moment for her to realise that her eyes were dry; they weren't her tears. She felt her heart sting. She let go of his hand.

She broke the kiss.

Even as she looked at them, even as the gleam of them hurt her, she couldn't quite assimilate the tears with him. She let her hands slide from his arms; she didn't ask why. He buried his face in her neck and cried; she couldn't make herself hold him. She was angry and disgusted. She'd been reminded sharply that it had little to do with her; it was all about him. She felt used, she wanted to hit him. She managed to restrain that urge.

She listened to the sounds of his sobs, her eyes fixed on the closed door, and tears fell like jewels from the ends of her hair. She forced herself to watch that door, she forced herself not to slap him. This was all her own fault; she'd encouraged him.

She hummed Leona Lewis in her mind; she'd tried to glance across to see the time, but the clock wasn't at the right angle. She had the ill feeling that she should have been sleeping. She tried to sift back through the events of the evening, to pinpoint when she'd gone wrong, when she should have acted for real and not just played around doing anything, when she should have set the record straight. She couldn't think with someone crying on her shoulder. It was as though he was doing it just to make her feel bad.

_That isn't nice,_ she thought; _he's really sad._

_Oh, he's cut up, alright!_ she thought back. _He's playing you for a fool! It's all part of the game, part of _his_ control!_

_Shhh!_

He kissed her neck.

Her thoughts scrambled. She choked on a moan and clutched his arms tightly with her hands. Oh, crap, that was good! _Since when?_ she thought blankly. She shivered, pushing against his arms seriously, now. "Stop it, Alex," she breathed.

Panic rose in her; delicious panic. If he didn't stop, she was going to do something very, very stupid!

She hollered, "ALAN!"

The kisses stopped; her throat hurt, she fought back a cough and swallowed. Her skin burned, upset at her. She met his eyes with anger, ignoring the shine of tears that begged for softness; she had the urge to find something to wipe them away. "I wasn't offering a sympathetic shag, you stupid fuck!" she spat, and threw him back with as much strength she could gather to her shaking arms, revulsion rising thick and fast in her blood, replenishing her strength.

He managed not to fall and sat staring at her in upset and confusion before he started to cough, tears welling in his eyes.

She lurched forward, launching herself at him, but, by that time, he'd had the sense to leave her be, and she succeeded in nothing more violent than chasing him to the bathroom and banging on the door with a growl of, "Maniac!" Feeling like she wanted to cry herself, she slid down the door and drew her knees up under her chin and hugged her legs, shaking. What was worse was that she really hadn't wanted to say _no_, she'd really wanted to say _yes_, but that hadn't been an option: he was sick and if they'd known each other for a day, it'd be a lot. He didn't need her to encourage him back into his old ways, if, indeed, he had any, or to new ones; and she didn't need to end up dead.

She hugged her legs until her feet began to tingle, listening to the sounds of vomiting. She felt like a kid again – and she hated it!

* * *

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." She barely even heard the litany anymore; the words had been heard too many times, she'd started to blank them out; she couldn't help wondering if Alex had stopped hearing them, too.

She rose on unsteady legs and turned, her hand reaching for the door handle. The look of surprise touched no more than the shine of her eyes; she'd expected the door to be locked, but it was unlocked; just unlocked. She pushed the door open as stabs of pain ran up her legs like lightning in reverse. The bathroom tiles were cool beneath her feet, but she ignored it all.

She got down on her knees and put her arms around Alex, holding him against her. His silence frightened her, as though a switch had been flipped. "I'm sorry," she told him.

His gaze stared, and, if she hadn't been able to feel that he was breathing, she might have been led to believe that he'd died.

She rocked back and forth, stroking his hair. Her legs hurt; she flinched with the slightest movement. She pressed her mouth to his ear in a kiss and stilled her hand in his hair, making a fist of her fingers around a handful of hair.

She drew back from him, for a moment, her hand still clutching his hair, and felt the rush of coolness that came to replace the warmth of his body pressed to hers, like the swiftness of her body's defence against infection, against false comforts. Her eyes watched the tears that slid from the corners of his eyes and she brought her lips to meet his in a suffocating kiss.

His hands shot up to her arms, and the spasms in her legs were forgotten with the pain of his grip on her arms. She bit down hard on his bottom lip until she tasted tangy blood, and she pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard to get oxygen back into her blood.

She took her hand from his hair and braced her palm against the hard tile. She got in some good breaths before she coughed and brought a shaking hand up to wipe the blood from her mouth. It wasn't her favourite taste.

Alex gripped her chin with a hand, she jerked back from his touch, but not enough to fend off the kiss that followed. She dug her fingernails into his thigh, moving into his warmth; her legs had stopped stinging.

* * *

She woke on the bathroom floor, cold, stiff and sore, and left the room to put the kettle on for coffee. The water from the tap felt like ice on her hands when it spilled over from the kettle, and she returned the kettle to its pad, flicking the switch to turn it on. The light on its handle lit up. She walked back to the bathroom and sat down on the floor, crossing her legs.

She traced a set of scratches that she'd made on Alex's face the night before. The water in the kettle started to warm up; she heard the rumble of it. She ran the pad of her thumb over his bottom lip, over the darkened lump from where she'd bit it.

She stood and walked to the cabinet, looking for disinfectant; she'd put some of her things in the cabinet when she'd first come to the hotel. She found a small bottle of disinfectant she remembered buying four years earlier in an overpriced pharmacy at 3 am. She'd used it once since then, on a wood splinter. That little splinter had really hurt!

She found some tissues and sat down and unscrewed the cap of the bottle of disinfectant.

Alex woke with a jerk; the disinfectant stung!

"Don't move," she told him. "You don't want this in your eyes."

"What is it?"

She consulted the bottle and read off the name, offhand. She put the bottle down on the floor and used the disinfectant on his lip.

He put a hand up to push her away with a hiss, but kept his hand on her arm. "It's disgusting!"

"I don't think people buy it for its taste," she replied. "Good morning to you, too. That's it; I'm done."

She listened to the kettle click 'off' and the rumble of boiling water to subside.

"Good morning," Alex said finally.

She stood without a word and returned the bottle of disinfectant to the cabinet. She walked out of the room to put the tissues in the bin. "I can't stand instant," she declared when she returned. She stuck out a hand to help Alex to his feet. She frowned and walked to the cabinet for another tissue, which she pressed to his lip; it had started bleeding again. "I'm going out for a decent coffee," she said as she left the room.

* * *

She looked through her clothes and decided that, today, she didn't like any of them. She chose a yellow t-shirt with a smiling sun on it and paired it with the same jeans she'd worn yesterday. She put her hair up in a rough ponytail – it needed washing – and walked back into the living area to find her high heels and put them on.

They were tan and cute but she wasn't in the mood for them. She trudged back to the bedroom and dug out her joggers, picking a pair of pink socks.

She found Alex in the kitchenette, watching the city wake up.

"Don't laugh!" she warned, and he turned and glanced at her.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It's the sun, dork," she replied, and walked away. "You're allowed to come, if you want," she called back and made her way to the door.

The trip down to the ground floor was slow and annoying; she tried not to look at Alex, she felt like a vampire whenever she looked at his lip. Her eyes burnt too much and she wanted to kiss him. If she didn't look at him, it wasn't as bad. "I have one with sunglasses, but I left that one at home," she said, watching the keys light up on the pad signifying the floor they'd just passed.

"You have what?"

"A sun t-shirt," she replied, going for bored instead of _How can you not get it?_

They reached Ground Floor, sparing Alex the need to answer. Shannen was glad; she didn't think she even _wanted_ to try to fathom his response.

* * *

The coffee shop was cold, in fact, the entire plaza was cold, as though the heaters hadn't had enough time to get going before the complex had opened for business. Shannen took a table by the windows looking out onto a multilane road. It was hardly an appetising view, but there was a bit of sun and she liked chairs better than stools.

Something nudged against her shoe, calling her attention.

"Hello," Alex said.

She looked out the window strangely. "Hello." She returned her gaze to the table. "This is mad."

Alex nodded and launched into a discussion that had Shannen wondering what planet – or possibly galaxy – he'd jetted off to 'til she caught a few words she recognised and deduced that he'd thought she'd been referring to the building's construction.

She waved. "That's the last time I buy you proper ground coffee," she commented.

A look of confusion came onto Alex's face.

"I'm not an Engineering major," she told him. "For all that I got out of that, you might as well have been speaking Klingon." She sighed. "But, of course, you're not a Trekkie. You've no idea what Klingon is."

"No," Alex replied with a frown.

"See, mad. This, _us_, it's mad! I don't know you, and you don't know me any better." She shook her head. "Whatever the Hell happened last night, it's never happening again! This is goodbye, Alex." She forced herself not to blink without stomping on her foot under the table. She wished she could have found a nicer way to say it – she'd begun to suspect that Alex had problems beyond what he'd admitted to her; maybe even a mental disability problem – but she wasn't a grievance counsellor who, she was sure, could present any number of possible variations on the same on demand. "I'm not going to be able to stay," she added, hoping she wouldn't come across as patronising and insensitive. She couldn't make herself ask, _Do you understand what I'm saying?_

She sipped her coffee; she'd have to go soon, she just hoped Alex didn't try to dissuade her. She didn't want to be reduced to tears in public, and certainly not again, not in front of him. He'd misconstrue it, she was certain, if it happened.

That was that! There was no going back and changing her mind now.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed. He stood up and walked around the table to where she was sitting. She thought maybe he'd offer his hand – they could shake on it – but he leant down and kissed her cheek, instead. If she hadn't been paying attention, she doubted she would have felt much of anything. She pressed the heel of her jogger onto the top of her foot under the table, willing herself not to do anything. She'd have pinched her leg if it wasn't so conspicuous. Then she had to watch him walk away.

She didn't know why she cared, but she did.

* * *

_Two months later_

True Pogue had short, curly red hair. She was the main character of _True Justice_, who Shannen played. She'd got the part one and a half months ago. She wore a t-shirt with an elephant motif in metallic silver and a pair of small tan shorts, and, despite the clinic's cooling, she still felt hot. She returned the magazine she'd been reading to the pile she'd taken it from and tried not to choke on the strong perfume the young woman sitting beside her was wearing.

She glanced at her watch, willing the time to speed up. A week ago, Barnaby had invited her to dinner with Donna, Myriam and Luca. The kids had gotten so big. She thought about the phone call from her parents; they'd wanted her to come up to stay for the weekend.

She sighed heavily and fanned her face for a moment. She'd have to check the four day forecast on MSN when she got home, check out what the weather would be like when she went up so she'd know what to pack in the way of clothes.

Two days ago, she'd spotted a gorgeous orange cardigan in a shop window, but it wouldn't have gone with her new, red hair. She was still thinking it over; maybe she could buy it for a later date.

Her name was called by a doctor who'd stepped into the waiting area. She didn't hear her the first time; the second time she shot to her feet, apologetic. People had began to look around, wondering if 'Shannen' was going to front up or not.

She followed the doctor to her office and took a seat. She resisted the urge to fan her face again.

* * *

She bought a can of Coke from a vending machine in the foyer, using up the last of her loose change, and sat in her car holding the can as it cooled her hands and made them slippery. She'd wanted to interject when the doctor had given her the diagnosis – it was just the one time; she didn't usually do that sort of thing – but she'd known that her words wouldn't change a thing: she was pregnant.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. What was she going to say to her parents, her friends; the press?

She turned the key in the ignition and dialled up the air conditioning; she opened her Coke and took a sip; tears slipped down her face and made her Coke salty.

_Congratulations, Shannen!_ she thought bitterly.


	6. Chapter 6

_1957_

The door was pushed open slowly and Lacey stepped into the bedroom. The room was like ice. She walked to the wardrobe in the muted morning light. She didn't have long; her window of opportunity was short. She had to make this as quick as possible. She chose a few things, a good, warm coat and shut the wardrobe, turning, with her arms covered in items of clothes, to the bed where her little brother slept.

Her gaze lingered for a moment before she drew it away from the child, towards the suitcase which contained a few of her own things. She left the coat out and shut the suitcase; the lock snapped shut with a sharp click.

She walked quietly to the bed, placing her hands to her cheeks to feel their temperature; they were like ice, she rubbed them together hastily though it would do very little, she supposed. She sat gently on the bed and bent over to speak quietly into the child's ear. "Little brother." She raised her voice a fraction. "Little brother." At the last moment, she remembered to smile.

The child blinked open his eyes.

"There now," she said. "We must be swift, Alex. I'm going for a walk, would you like to accompany me?"

Alex frowned. "Where are you walking?" he asked.

"Outside, of course," Lacey replied with a smile.

"It is cold outside."

The teenager stood from the bed and turned away to walk to the suitcase. She folded the coat she'd left out and placed it in the suitcase with the other things; she took out a jacket she'd bought in town; it was new and it had a train embroidered onto it. She'd bought it because she'd thought it had looked very warm. She smiled and walked back to her little brother's side. He'd sat up and was watching the window where the day was beginning to brighten.

"I bought you a new jacket," she said, watching his eyes take the present in.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to the train motif.

"It's a train, Alex," she explained.

He remembered the word, he'd heard it before; trains carried things and travelled on rails, they had engines. He smiled back at her.

The warmth was wiped from her face at the sound of footsteps outside the room. The jacket slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor. She didn't go to pick it up but pulled Alex off the bed, setting him on his feet. But, even as she did, she knew it was too late; the footsteps were too close. She turned to the door as a woman entered, followed by three men. Lacey clutched her little brother to her. "No! I won't allow this! I reject your offer!"

Her mother smiled. "Good morning, children." Her smile ended abruptly with her next words, "If memory serves correctly, the subject of Alex's education is not up for discussion. He goes where I, his mother, see fit to send him! You will not oppose me, daughter!"

"He's my brother," Lacey shouted, "not your plaything! I can't stand by!" Her voice hitched with a whine, "I can't!" She shook her head, dislodging her tears. "Alex is coming with me. I've packed our things. We won't need much, just enough to make do."

Her mother laughed. "Somehow, I don't _think_ so, Lacey! You see, what will actually be happening is what I say happens. _I_ am Alex's mother – not you! You are nothing more than an overzealous _child_ falsely convinced of your own faultlessness!"

"I AM HIS MOTHER!" Lacey shrieked. "I carried him for nine months, I birthed him! You! You engineered all of this for nothing more than your _own_ benefit! You've never cared about me; you've never cared about Alex!" Her eyes darted frantically to one of the men standing behind her mother. "Daddy, please! You can't let her do this! Not this! He's your _son_!"

"I have no son," the man replied in a Russian accent. "My son is dead!" She'd heard the story before: her father's firstborn, born to his first wife back in Russia, had died years before.

Lacey's eyes pleaded, begged. "Daddy, please!"

Two men separated from the group, moving toward the girl and the little boy.

Lacey shook her head, backing away from the men. They'd never take her or the boy. Her hand was clutched around the little boy's tightly, and, as she moved backward, he shuffled back with her. He stared at the older woman, his mother. He didn't know what they were arguing about; he was frightened.

"Don't make this hard, Lacey," her mother advised. "You can't win, no matter what you do! This isn't a game! You're only hurting your brother all the more by your actions! Is that what you truly want?"

Tears flooded down Lacey's face, falling from her chin onto the boy's hair. She just wanted the woman to leave them alone, she just wanted to be Alex's mother!

Her back hit the wall with a solid thud; fear leapt into her eyes. Her blonde hair brushed across her face in the breeze from the open window. Her father had moved to open the window; rooms were always aired in the morning.

She clutched the little boy tightly to her, sliding down the wall and wrapping her arms about him as though to hide him from their view, but the men were stronger.

Alex never said anything; he couldn't figure out what was happening, he needed to work it out.

The woman smiled; she'd been right, of course. Lacey couldn't do anything to stop what had already been set into motion, she'd never had a chance. She would leave shortly after her little brother; she would go away to work, she would meet a nice young man, she'd forget about the little boy.

Silently, Lacey shot to her feet in one last attempt to save her son and leapt away from the wall, towards the two men and the little boy. Her attack was easily deflected by one of the men, and she was propelled backwards, towards the open window.

The woman's hand shot up, as though to reach for her daughter, as though to stop her fall, but she was too far away, and too late. The heavy thud that followed told her that her daughter would no longer be an obstacle in the way of her decision for her 'son.'

She strode forward swiftly and seized the little boy's hand painfully. With a burning glare, directed to the two men – she spared her husband no glances – she turned and marched out, taking the child with her.

This was all his fault!

* * *

_2010_

Alex opened his eyes and sat up. It was Lacey's day; the anniversary of the day she'd died. His mother would have gone to the cemetery to visit her daughter. He was not invited; he'd been reminded, as he always was, that it wasn't his day – it was Lacey's. Barbara – who went by Barb – would have left the chairmanship of the Center's Alabama branch in the hands of the Tower doctor, Dr. Clarkson. Not that Alex cared; the sole reason his mother had had him returned to life was to make it a living Hell, as she'd always done.

He'd pushed his sister out of an upstairs window when he'd been four, he'd made his mother's life Hell; she was only repaying him. She'd never wanted him to be her son – he wasn't like other people, he wasn't even properly human, according to his mother. He'd stopped paying attention to her four days ago when she'd told her latest boyfriend that her daughter's seventy-first birthday was coming up. His sister had been dead for fifty-three years!

And if that wasn't bad enough, she'd decided to adopt a seventeen-year-old so that she could introduce her to her friends at the country club where she took lunch once a week as her daughter. The girl's name was Atlas and, in Alex's opinion, she looked nothing like Barb. She wasn't even of the same ethnicity, but, he supposed, Barb would probably be having her dye her hair blonde and wearing contact lenses to make her eyes blue in no time. Barb always got what she wanted.

He left the Sweet Home Lounge – named for the song _Sweet Home Alabama_ – without a backward glance; he would have been assigned some SIMs that Barb would want him to look at as soon as possible, nothing really ever changed.

The radio station in the lounge had been playing something by the Seekers, and, as he walked further away from it, the music became indistinguishable.

* * *

Standing in her parents' drive beside her car, Shannen's mother, Aine, took her daughter in her arms for an embrace.

Shannen's expression remained as grim set and dull as it had been moments before. She hated how her mother felt, she felt too squishy, too puffy. Just because the pills had been prescribed by her mother's doctor, that didn't stop her feeling disgust at their side effects.

She hadn't missed her mother's shuffling walk, or her near blank expression.

It wasn't even as though her mother was mentally ill! She'd never been so, she'd just been an emotional kid, so her parents had had her committed for seventeen years. If anything had damaged her, it had been the institutionalisation. But Shannen never said anything about that; she'd heard the story from her father who'd told her in confidence and if she was to say anything, it wouldn't be anything nice, so she said nothing. She couldn't bear the thought of how her words might hurt her mother.

When she'd still been the host of _True Crimes_, she'd had to ask the hard questions, pose the hard scenarios, but the 'hard bits' didn't include her mom. Her dad, she knew, could hack discussion; her mom had much less than her husband did in the way of tolerance. Which was probably why Shannen never really discussed anything more complicated than her top ten picks from the weekly television guide with her mom.

"You've been getting enough fluids?" her mother asked her usual string of questions. "You've been taking your vitamins every day?"

"Yes," Shannen replied, her usual response.

* * *

She walked to her old room and lay down on her bed, plugging her mp3 player's earphones into her ears and turning on Josh Grobin; the album had been a present from Barnaby and Donna. She wasn't sure that she was really into it, but it was something to listen to, something to take her mind from her mother's condition.

She closed her eyes and imagined that she wasn't alone, that she was warm with arms around her.

Her father was working at the plant; downstairs, her mother watched the same old familiar daytime television programmes.

Her eyes swum with tears; she didn't open them. She wished she could fall asleep and just dream. Dream herself away to another place.

* * *

She knelt in the driveway, checking out the tread on her back tyres. It was getting thin; she'd need new tyres soon. She stood up and brushed her hands down on her pants. She reached a hand up to her lower intestine and placed it there, feeling for anything different. It felt the same as always. She shook herself mentally and turned back to the front door.

The clouds shifted overhead and a shadow fell over the yard. Gravel crunched under her shoes.

* * *

Shannen pushed her food about on her plate, and picked up her butterknife to cut up her sausage. The radio was playing from the sideboard and she wished it wouldn't, she wished someone would turn it off, but that was just how it always was; dinner, radio on.

Her mother liked sausages; they were relatively easy to cook, pop them in the frypan with some oil and turn them around a bit. She'd made some microwave vegetables in sauce to go with them, which was a change from her usual selection of vegetables, but frozen nonetheless, the same as the others from the packet had been. Her mom didn't cook with fresh vegetables much; she shopped at the supermarket she'd always shopped at, she didn't go to the deli or the market, she didn't even go to the butcher's. If her supermarket didn't have it, it wasn't on the menu. She didn't compare prices; whatever the price tag said was the _right_ price.

Shannen could remember being peeved about this even as a kid, and even more so when she'd hit her teens and she'd started taking home economics classes in school.

She picked at a bit of vegetable with her fork and popped it in her mouth. "The tyres are looking worn on the sedan, I thought maybe you'd have a look at them for me later, pa."

Her father nodded; he could do that, sure.

"I'm going to get them changed, but I don't know if I should do it right away or if it'd be okay to wait until I'd had a look around at the prices," she added.

* * *

It was dark outside by the time they got around to checking the tyres, her dad took a flashlight and she promised Aine that she'd be back to clear the table and clean up the dishes just as soon as she'd gotten her dad's opinion.

Once he'd seen the tyres, Matthew gave a nod and told her that she should probably have them changed sooner rather than later; he wanted his little girl to be safe.

They stopped on the porch without entering the house and Matthew lit up a cigarette. Shannen waved her hand about in front of her face and looked out across the front yard. "Pa?"

"Yeah, sport?"

"I'm pregnant."

She didn't look at her dad when she said this, but she noticed movement out of the side of her eye and saw that he'd put out his cigarette. Her father had never doubted her honesty; she'd always felt trusted when it came to her pa, and she respected – and in turn trusted – him for that. Respect, in her books, was about competency and trust, never about fear and petty power games.

"Is there a man in the picture?" Matthew asked quietly. He didn't want her mom knowing right now any more than she did; he had no way of knowing how her mom might respond to the news.

Shannen shook her head, feeling the familiar tears pushing at the corners of her eyes.

"There a story to that? Something you want to share?"

She shook her head again.

"Not right now. Maybe later?"

"Maybe later," she agreed. She touched his hand for a moment, but didn't take it in hers. She turned about and reached for the doorhandle.

"You've always got your mom and I, sport! That's not going to change. You'll remember that, won't you?"

She nodded, sniffing. "Yeah, pa."

"Good girl."

She resisted a wince; she'd always hated when her dad got all schoolteacher on her, though she knew he only meant it for the best.

* * *

It was late when she woke – 2 am, by the clock on the kitchen wall – but she walked to her parents' room anyway. She was careful not to be rough with the door, and, when she spoke quietly to her dad, he woke and got out of bed to join her in the kitchen for a cup of tea without complaint. He would have woken in a few minutes, in any case, out of thirst, he told her. It happened when you got older; you needed liquid then you needed the bathroom. It never ended.

The kettle clicked off and Shannen poured hot water onto a teabag in the glass pot reserved for tea. She brought the pot to the kitchen table and placed it down to steep, and took a seat across from Matthew.

For a long couple of moments, she had nothing to say, and the room was silent but for the buzzing of the neon strip over their heads, casting the room in icy light. She fiddled with her teacup, turning it around and around on the tabletop. "I think he's sick," she voiced finally. "The baby's dad. I think he's sick like mom." She knew what the experts said about mental illness and inherited predisposition, and it scared her.

"Oh Shannen!"

"I don't know what came over me. It's like I just went crazy for those few hours."

Matthew reached his hand out across the table to take hers; she continued turning the cup, unseeing. She couldn't look at him.

"I don't think I'm safe when I'm with him. I just… can't seem to think."

"Will you keep it?"

Her eyes shot up from the cup that had been preoccupying them. "I would never hurt a baby!" she told him vehemently.

"It's not a baby 'til it's born, Shannen."

"I don't believe that," she said.

"That's your choice, I guess. It isn't my opinion, but I think, in the end, we'd agree. I don't believe in self-mutilation, and if it's not its own being until it's out, then it's an extension of its parents until then."

She sniffed. "I don't even know his name. I mean, I _do_ know his _name_, but only his first name."

"Does he work?" her father prompted.

She nodded. "I think so, but I don't know in what. He's… older than me."

"Much older?"

"Maybe ten years, maybe ten and some, maybe twenty," Shannen answered. Suddenly, she just didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Is he a God-fearing man?"

Shannen grinned morbidly. "I wouldn't have a clue." She sniffed. "I always hated that phrase. It never inspired feelings of trust and love in me."

Matthew patted her hand.

She took her hand away to pour out the tea. "How's mom?" she asked, passing him a cup.

"Nnn… same as ever…"

She put a hand on the side of her face and leant over to blow on her cup of tea. "Sometimes, I just wish mom could be okay! I hate that she can't be herself! I just want her to be okay!"

"So do I, sport. Pa wishes mom could be alright, too. It's just a sad state of affairs."

Shannen let go of her cup and put her other hand up to her face, willing herself not the cry. Her dad didn't need it, at that moment; he had enough of his own sadness to deal with. More than that, _she_ didn't want to cry. Now that she was pregnant, she hated to be miserable ten times more than she had in the past. She was afraid that it would hurt the baby in some way.


End file.
